


Message Boy

by Zoejoy24



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Beating, Gen, Kidnapping, Malcolm Bright Whump, Physical Abuse, Threats, Whump, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: Based on these prompts: waking up restrained  | shackled | hanging.~“Wha- what is this?” Malcolm gasps out, still fighting to catch his breath.“It’s a warning, Malcolm Bright,” Pierce replies.    "This really isn’t about you, I’m afraid.  You’ve just been chosen as the scapegoat, as it were.  The sacrificial lamb.”
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947349
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Message Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to be participating in Whumptober this year! I have a handful of prompts that I'm hoping to fill. This is warm-up, to get me back into the groove of writing whump. I hope you all enjoy!

Malcolm regains consciousness with a gasp and a painfully violent jerk, his whole body flinching away from the sudden shock of being drenched with freezing cold water. It pours over his head into his mouth and nose, and he gasps, eyes flying open only to close again as water flows in and clouds his vision. He reacts without thinking, feet slipping on wet concrete as he tries to turn away, to escape the onslaught. His frantic movements are futile; the water keeps coming, though, mercifully, the steady stream moves from his head to his chest, allowing him to finally breathe. It takes several moments for him to fully come back to himself. He has no idea where he is, or how he’d gotten there. Last he remembers, he’d been walking home, less than a block from his apartment. As awareness returns, he starts to realize that the burning in his shoulders and wrists is a separate pain from the icy chill of the water pouring over his body and soaking his clothes.

He’s hanging, suspended from his arms, thick shackles secured tightly around his wrists, cutting sharply into skin and bone as his weight pulls down on them. It isn’t until the steady stream of water finally stops that he’s able to get his feet under him and blink his eyes open fully, struggling to take stock of his situation. There’s not much to see. He’s in a large, open space, with dusky late-afternoon sunlight filtering in through dirty windows set high in the wall. A thick rope has been threaded through the chain connecting the shackles on his wrists, pulling his arms up towards the ceiling. Now that he’s got his feet under him, there’s plenty of slack in the rope, and he’s able to relax his arms, relieving his wrists and shoulders from the pressure of holding his body weight. A small mercy. 

“Back with us, I see,” a nasally voice calls out.

Malcolm jerks in surprise, nearly losing his footing once more. He doesn’t recognize the voice, and his vision is still blurred by water dripping from his soaked hair. It takes him several moments of rapid blinking before he’s able to clearly see the man standing a few feet away, hose in hand. Once Malcolm sees him clearly, the man is unmistakable; Conrad Pierce, a well-known enforcer for one of the larger gangs in the city. Malcolm’s never had dealings with him, or his gang, before, but he’s a notorious figure in the New York crime scene, and a frequent visitor to the Precinct. Though, unsurprisingly, none of the charges that bring him there ever seems to stick.

“Wha- what is this?” Malcolm gasps out, still fighting to catch his breath.

“It’s a warning, Malcolm Bright,” Pierce replies. 

A shiver spreads through Malcolm’s body, and not from the cold. The fact that Conrad Pierce knows him by name is… unsettling. Of course, the man could easily have gone through his wallet, peeked at his license. But somehow, Malcolm doubts that.

“About w-what?” Malcolm presses, teeth chattering as another shiver courses through him. This time, it is definitely from the cold. There’s no heat running in the building, and with most of the windows broken, it’s almost as cold inside the large, open space as it is out in the late November air. 

"Hmm. Either you’re acting the fool, or your team isn’t quite as good as my employer thought. No matter. This really isn’t about you, I’m afraid. You’ve just been chosen as the scapegoat, as it were. The sacrificial lamb.”

Malcolm’s breath catches in his throat once more, and as much as he’d like to blame it on the water he’d surely inhaled while he’d been sprayed down with the hose, the way his heart rate increases as well betrays the fear that wells up inside him at the other man’s words. He truly has no idea what Pierce wants with him, though he’s starting to put some of the pieces together. If only he could stop shaking, and his teeth could stop knocking together when particularly violent shivers run through him.

“I’m not acting,” he insists. “And if you just… leave now, I’ll be none the wiser, and none of this will be necessary.”

“Ah, if only things were that simple,” Conrad laughs. He drops the hose, and begins to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt. ‘“Unfortunately, I do have a job to do.” He sighs, moving his hands to his hips, looking Malcolm up and down speculatively, lips pursed. He nods, once, clearly coming to some sort of decision, and steps forward till he’s nearly standing toe to toe with Malcolm, raising his hand towards Malcolm’s face.

Malcolm flinches back, uselessly, turning his head as best he can, tensed for a blow that never comes. Rather, Pierce catches his chin between thumb and forefinger, turning his head frontwards once more and looking Malcolm squarely in the eyes.

“I need you to deliver a message for me, to your team. Lieutenant Arroyo, Detectives Powell and Tarmel. He’s going to be a father soon, isn’t he?” Pierce hums, and Malcolm feels a spark of fear flash through him once more at the knowledge Pierce possesses about his team. “They all seem very protective of you, Mr. Bright. Concerned for your well-being, which is why I choose you. Do you think you can do this for me?”

“O-okay,” Malcolm grits out, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering together. His muscles spasm painfully as he shivers, limbs jerking hard enough that the chain rattles and his feet nearly slip out from beneath him. His thick trousers and jacket, meant for warmth, are heavy with water, keeping his body encased in an icy shell, his body heat doing nothing to fight the cold air surrounding him.

“Drop the Randall case. It’s none of your concern, and all you’re gonna find is trouble if you keep looking further,” Pierce snarls, his voice suddenly dark and vicious as he leans in close enough that Malcolm can feel his breath against his cheek. 

Before Malcolm can respond, Pierce lashes out and punches him square in the stomach, just below his ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a painful rush. He isn’t given time to recover before Pierce delivers two more blows to his middle, followed viciously fast by a strike to his face, driving his head to the side hard enough that he’s sure to have whiplash. Malcolm’s legs give out beneath him and he sees stars, choking out a ragged cry as his shoulders and wrists catch his weight with a painful jerk. 

Malcolm wheezes and coughs, scrambling to get his feet under him once more. Breathing is a struggle as his abused ribs and stomach protest the effort each inhale and exhale requires.

Pierce steps in close and grabs a handful of Malcolm’s hair, yanking his head up. Malcolm glares up at him as best he can, and Pierce chuckles.

“You know, for some, that would be enough. But you’re a fighter, aren’t you, Mr. Bright? Stubborn. So is that Lieutenant of yours. It’s going to take a bit more to really get the message through, isn’t it?”

Malcolm snarls, biting out a curse, though the effect is lessened by the wheezing and shivering, which only makes Pierce laugh louder.

The beating continues. Pierce knows how to inflict pain, without causing _too_ much damage, though Malcolm’s fairly sure he has at least one cracked rib. The blows are focused on his stomach and sides, hard enough to be painful, to keep him from catching his breath, and certainly enough to bruise, but not enough to damage organs. 

It hurts like hell, and Malcolm doesn’t bother to bite back on the gasps and moans that are driven out of him, when he even has the breath to spare. His feet scramble uselessly against the concrete but he can’t regain his footing, and he’s left hanging, swaying like a punching bag beneath Pierce’s onslaught. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes before Pierce is finally satisfied, all he knows is that everything hurts, and is going to for a long time. Then, Pierce strikes out one last time, another blow to the head, and Malcolm knows no more.

He wakes up on the ground, a particularly violent shiver making his whole body jerk, his abs tightening and making him gasp, the pain pulling him back to consciousness. Malcolm groans, and if it turns into a sob, no one is there to judge him for it. Everything hurts. His head is pounding, his stomach and ribs throbbing, shoulders burning, and anything that doesn’t hurt is cold as hell. The shackles are gone, and he pulls his arms in close to his body in an attempt to shield his numb fingers from the cold. He’s still wet, though, lying in a pool of water as he is, and there’s nowhere on his body that feels any warmer than his fingers do, anyways. 

There’s barely any light in the building, which means night has fallen, and he’s in real danger of hypothermia, if he hasn’t already reached that point already. He’s struggling to push himself up, to get his sluggish body moving, when a bright light fills the space a few feet away from him, and a familiar trill of electronic bells cuts through the silence of the building.

His phone is there, and it’s ringing. He scrambles towards the little rectangle of light, practically dragging himself across the floor until he’s close enough to reach out and grab it. His heart swells when he sees Gil’s name on the screen, and his fingers are barely cooperating, but he manages to swipe across the screen and answer the call.

“ _Gil_?” he gasps out, his voice scratchy and rough.

“Kid,” Gil breaths out, “where the hell are you?”

“I d-don’t, don’t k-know. I’ll— _hng_ , I’ll send you a p-pin,” he stutters out. _The shivering is good_ , his mind supplies, as he struggles to get his hands to cooperate, to press the right buttons to share his location with Gil. _It’s when you stop shivering that there’s a problem._ “Gil. Did you... did you get it?”

“Yeah, kid. I got it. I’m close.”

“C-close?” Malcolm stutters out, surprised.

“I’ll explain when I get there, Bright. Are you okay?”

“I’m c-cold. Wet. Little bruised.”

“Shit. I’ll be right there, okay Bright? Hang in there, kid.”

Malcolm murmurs some sort of response, but then his phone slips from his fingers, and he can’t quite find the energy to pick it up again. He slumps back down to the cold, wet floor, and hopes that Gil really is as close as he claimed to be.

***

Gil curses loudly when the line goes silent. The connection hasn’t been cut, but Bright isn’t replying to his questions anymore. Rather than continuing to try to get a response, he hangs up and calls for an ambulance. Whatever condition the kid is in, it’s clear he needs medical attention. 

Gil had been trying to get a hold of Malcolm for over an hour, ever since he’d gotten a text from an unknown number that said simply ‘Come get your boy,’ followed by an address. The address led him to an old, mostly abandoned industrial park. Much to his frustration, no specific building had been indicated, and Gil had nearly started searching building by building when Malcolm had finally answered his call. The location Malcolm had sent him was much more specific, bringing him to one specific building, though it’s a large structure, and it still takes Gil several long minutes of searching until he finally finds his profiler.

Gil’s heart plummets when the beam of his flashlight sweeps across the floor and lands on Malcolm’s prone form. He’s lying on his side in a pool that Gil initially fears is blood. He rushes over to the younger man’s side, his panic easing only slightly when he catches the slow rise and fall of his body, a sure sign that he’s at least breathing. 

“Malcolm, hey, kid, can you hear me?” Gil asks as he drops to his knees next to Bright. This close, he’s relieved to find the pool is only water, though Malcolm is soaked in it, and Gil can feel just how cold it is as it starts to quickly seep in through his pant legs.

Malcolm groans softly as Gil rolls him carefully onto his back, methodically checking each inch of his body for signs of injury or bleeding. He sees nothing, although Malcolm’s face is bruised and he has a cut on one cheek. He pats him lightly on the uninjured cheek, calling out his name a few more times until, finally, Malcolm’s eyelids flutter open, and he gasps, sucking in a pained, wheezing breath. 

“Gil?” he whispers, eyes searching wildly in the dark till they finally find Gil’s face. Malcolm smiles, weakly, and his eyes start to slide closed once more.

“Hey, hey kid, I need you to stay awake, okay? Are you hurt? Can you move?”

“Just, a lil’ bruised. Should...be fine t-to move,” Malcolm slurs, forcing his eyes back open.

Gil wraps his hands beneath Malcolm’s arms and drags him to a dry patch of ground. Malcolm moans softly, but doesn’t protest. 

“The medics will be here any second, okay kid? Just hang in there.”

“‘M cold,” Malcolm murmurs.

“I know, kid,” Gil sighs. He debates getting the kid out to his car, blasting the heat going for him, but without knowing the extent of his injuries he’s worried about moving him too much. He wishes he had a blanket, or dry set of clothes he could give the kid, but he doesn’t. “Let’s get you out of this jacket, okay? It’s soaked.”

He manages to get Malcolm upright, and strips off his sodden suit coat, tossing it to the side. He pulls Malcolm close, gently urging the smaller mad to lean against his side, wrapping an arm carefully around the kid’s shoulder, sharing what body heat he can with him. Malcolm is barely shivering now, his body racked by an occasional tremor here and there, and it worries Gil.

Malcolm sinks into him with a sigh, grunting in pain as he settles against Gil’s side. Gil tries to be as careful as he’s able as he wraps his an arm around Malcolm's shoulder, rubbing his arm vigorously, and helps him to move in closer with a hand on his hip, practically pulling the younger man into his lap, sharing as much of his warmth with him as he can.

Malcolm lets his head fall against Gil’s shoulder, snuffling quietly as he settles into his hold.

“You wanna tell me what happened, Bright?” Gil asks once they are settled. He’ll get a full statement once he knows the kid is okay, but he wants to keep Malcolm awake and coherent until the medics arrive.

“I dunno. Got grabbed,” Malcolm begins, his voice soft, weary. “Woke up here. Got beat up. Do have some good news, though.”

Gil huffs in disbelief. “What’s that, kid?”

“We’re on the right trail,” Malcolm answers.

Gil tenses beneath him, his grip tightening around Malcolm protectively as some of the pieces start to fall into place. “Malcolm, who did this?” 

“Was Pierce,” Malcolm mutters. “Conrad Pierce. S’not happy.”

Before Gil can push any further, the wail of sirens cuts through the still night, and flashing lights flood in through the windows. He can hear the paramedics enter the building, and calls out to alert them of their location. He sets his concerns about Conrad Pierce to the side. The man is a threat, his employer even more so, a threat that Gil vows will be dealt with--later. His only concern in that moment is ensuring Malcolm’s safety. Retribution will have to wait.


End file.
